Stand at the Edge
by misqueue
Summary: When humanity stands at the brink of the apocalypse, Kurt Hummel chooses to fight. But after he loses his stepbrother, winning that fight becomes a self-destructive obsession. As Kurt faces off against the end of time, where does salvation lie? Pacific Rim/Glee AU fusion. Mostly focused on Glee characters. Major & Minor Character Deaths. Kinn and eventual Klaine. WIP
1. Chapter 1 - Prologue

**August 2013**

An eight year old Kurt Hummel lies on his stomach on the floor in the living room watching _Mulan_ on the Disney Channel. It's a Sunday morning. His Mom is in California visiting his Aunt Mildred, so his Dad has decided they can skip church this morning. Kurt's dressed up anyway. He wears his favorite pinstriped gray trousers, black patent leather oxfords, and butterfly blue shirt. His lavender bow tie with the tiny white _fleurs de lis_ is snug at his throat, and his hair is neatly combed. They'll go out later for ice cream so Kurt can show off his outfit. But Kurt's glad to miss the droning sermons and pointlessness of Sunday School.

Singing along with _Mulan_ is so much better than singing hymns, and they're almost up to his favorite part.

"Hey, kiddo," his Dad says behind him. Kurt distractedly waves a hand for silence. He hears his Dad chuckle and then a tray with a plate of syrup drenched waffles, a bowl of sliced bananas, and a glass of orange juice descends to the floor in front of him. They're toaster waffles, which his Dad always gives him when his Mom's away because Kurt loves his mother's made-from-scratch waffles, and therefore his Dad believes the ones from the freezer are actually a treat, but they're always like cold cardboard. Kurt knows how much his Dad likes to make him happy with them, though, so Kurt pretends they're special. "Breakfast," his Dad whispers.

"Shh," Kurt says, sitting up just as Shang begins to sing, "_Let's get down to business..._" Kurt joins him on the next line.

Then the screen goes silent and blank. "_...the Huns_," rings out in Kurt's high, lone voice.

Kurt doesn't have time to get out an indignant protest before an ABC Breaking News banner takes over the bottom of the screen and Diane Sawyer appears, uncharacteristically wide-eyed and listening intently to her ear piece.

"We have this live footage coming in right now from the San Francisco Bay," Diane says. "Following this morning's earthquake, there's a large— This seems impossible, but it appears to be a _creature_..."

Her image is replaced by shaky aerial helicopter footage of this enormous creature—it's bigger than a ship, bigger than the buildings in downtown Lima—bigger than anything Kurt's ever seen. It's like a mountain with limbs and a mouth. It's hauling its massive bulk out of the sea, lumbering toward the Golden Gate Bridge. Kurt blinks at the TV screen. It can't be real, except there's still Diane Sawyer's voice trying to explain the inexplicable. Maybe it's a weird ad for a new monster show.

But then his Dad's cell phone rings, and it's his Mom. His Dad puts it on speaker. She says that she and Aunt Mildred are in Aunt Mildred's car. They're on the bridge, the Golden Gate Bridge, the one on the television screen. She can see the creature, and when it roars, they can hear it both on the TV and also through the tinny little phone speaker. Weird, horrible stereo, it sounds like metal tearing.

The traffic is stalled. She and Aunt Mildred are getting out of the car, they're going to run. She's crying, Kurt can tell by the way her voice keeps breaking and how she's having trouble finishing her sentences. Then, because she's crying, Kurt starts crying, and soon his Dad is crying too and sitting down on the floor with Kurt, and they all keep saying, "I love you," to each other over and over and over, and his Dad's arms are tight around him, and on the screen the monster is lifting a gigantic clawed foot out of the bay, reaching for the bridge. It can't be real.

"Elizabeth?" his Dad yells, like if he says it really loud, it'll reach Mom and stop the monster and everything will be... not what it is happening right now.

His mother doesn't say, "I love you," again. She doesn't say anything.

His Dad pulls Kurt against his chest, one large hand cupping Kurt's head against him, trying to turn Kurt's face away from the TV, but Kurt's gaze is drawn sideways anyway. He sees everything as his father's heart drums against his cheek.

.

The people on TV call the monster the Trespasser, and the footage plays on every channel, all day, every day. Six days, millions dead, a three mile wide path of destruction, and the military finally drops a nuke on it. A great city destroyed. A nightmare from a B-grade science fiction film come to life.

.

There's no body. They have a memorial service on a day that is defiantly sunny and clear. Kurt wears a black suit just like his Dad's. It's brand new and the fabric of the trousers is itchy against his legs. In one hand he holds one of his mother's handkerchiefs. It's fine white cotton embroidered with blue and purple hydrangeas. Kurt rubs his thumb over the long silk stitches forming the green leaves. His father holds his other hand. Kurt doesn't cry while all the adults are looking at him.

.

**September 2013**

Kurt sits in his bedroom rearranging the furniture in his dollhouse because the Power Rangers are moving out to go to the West Coast in case there's another monster. He stops for a moment and looks at the small wood and velvet sofa he's holding in a too tight fist. He already snapped a leg off a dining chair today and ended up hysterically distraught over it. It's in the garage on his Dad's workbench, gently held in a padded vise while the wood glue dries overnight. Kurt still has a headache from crying too much.

He loosens his hold on the sofa and sets it down; then he goes downstairs to find his Dad.

His Dad is in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows staring at a thick cookbook open on the counter. There's a raw chicken in a roasting pan next to the stove, a pile of peeled potatoes sitting on the chopping board, some broccoli nearby in a plastic produce bag. "Do you need help?" Kurt asks.

It startles his Dad, who rubs his eyes against the shoulder of his shirt before he turns and gives Kurt a weak smile.

"Mom lets me cut the potatoes," Kurt says.

"Sure, buddy," his Dad says.

Kurt gets the stool from the pantry and drags over to where the potatoes are. His Dad hands him a knife. It's the wrong one, a filleting knife, but Kurt doesn't correct his Dad's choice. He takes extra care cutting the potatoes into quarters for boiling.

Dinner's terrible. The chicken is raw, the mashed potatoes are lumpy and dry, and the broccoli ends up mushy and gray. They laugh about it, but it's strange and hollow feeling. Then they cry, his Dad hugs him, and they go out for burgers.

While they sit in the hard plastic chairs under the fluorescent lights with the french fries on the table between them, Kurt asks his Dad something that's been on his mind, "I was wondering, Dad. Could I take karate lessons?"

The look on his Dad's face, of complete shock, tells Kurt the answer before his Dad has to say it.

"I could give up ballet," Kurt says. Because his Dad knows how much Kurt loves ballet class, the offer should let his Dad know that he's serious.

But it doesn't make a difference. His Dad shakes his head sadly. "No, Kurt. I don't think that's a great idea. Maybe when you're older."

"Fine," Kurt says, even though he wants to argue, but arguing with his Dad doesn't feel right. Instead he sucks thick cold mouthfuls of chocolate milkshake up his straw until his cheeks ache and he has a cold headache, too.

Kurt ends up quitting ballet eventually anyway. He loses focus with it—his instructor says it's because he's too angry—and the joy leaves soon after that. His mother isn't there any more to smile proudly, and even though his Dad is good at pretending, Kurt knows he doesn't really _get_ it.

.

It's weird how much adults don't talk about what happened in San Francisco. They do on the news still, but the people who bring their cars in to his Dad don't. They never say anything to Kurt, even if he mentions his mother. Most of the time they change the subject.

At school, the kids do talk about it. They _play_. At recess, they build little cities out of dirt and twigs and stones to kick over and break themselves, as if they're the monsters. They laugh. It's cruel, but none of them lost anyone. They think it's like a Godzilla movie. None of them are Kurt's friends, so it shouldn't matter. Except sometimes it does, because sometimes they're mean to him, and now they have one more way to be mean.

He doesn't hesitate to punch Jimmy Leighton in the face when he stomps on a pile of sticks that was meant to be a bridge and says in a high-pitched taunt, "Oh no, there goes Kurt's mommy."

Kurt ends up in the principal's office. He won't apologize to Jimmy. His Dad picks him up, and Kurt's not allowed to go back to school for three days. As if that's punishment.

"I'm worried," his Dad says in the car. They're stopped at a red light. "It's not like you to hit another boy."

Kurt shrugs. He felt perfectly like himself in the moment the punch landed and erased the smug cruelty on Jimmy's face. He felt strong and brave.

"Did he call you names again?"

Kurt shakes his head.

"Kurt," his Dad says, and he sounds extremely tired.

"I'm sorry," Kurt says. "Not for punching Jimmy, but I didn't mean to disappoint you."

"Oh, buddy." His Dad's hand lands on his shoulder, heavy and warm. "I'm not disappointed. Don't ever think that. I love you."

"I love you too, Dad."

"I miss Mom too, you know."

"I know."

The traffic light turns green.

.

**November 2013**

Another monster, now officially dubbed a Kaiju, crawls out of the Pacific Ocean and into Manila. There's warning this time, and evacuation is underway when the Kaiju makes landfall.

His Dad tries to stop him, but Kurt watches the television coverage anyway, he refuses to look away. And he wonders if there's a boy or girl like him somewhere, helplessly watching someone they love die on TV. He feels it's important to be a witness.

It takes the government of the Philippines less than four hours to accept the US offer of a nuclear strike.

There's nothing about it that's not horrifying. Kurt has nightmares for a very long time. He gets into a fist fight at school that leaves him with a split lip, a black eye, and a week long suspension.

His Dad finally lets him enroll in karate lessons, because he thinks Kurt needs a way to control his anger. Kurt already knows how to control his anger, because he's never not angry. What he wants is a direction. In the meantime, he'll learn to use his body for death instead of art.

.

**2014**

When the Pan Pacific Defense Corps are founded after the third Kaiju attack, Kurt knows his direction.


	2. Chapter 2

**(extra warning this part for bullying and homophobia)**

* * *

**September 2018**

The first day of high school, for all that Kurt's been racing himself to get here, dawns like many others. The school bus may arrive earlier, the kids may be older, but it's much like previous September Tuesdays after Labor Day. Kurt's overdressed. He never waits to wear the new autumn styles even though the heat of summer lingers stubbornly, growing ineffably stale as the days shorten. Walking from the bus, across the parking lot, toward the main entrance to William McKinley High School, Kurt is determinedly not perspiring in the clinging morning warmth.

That's when he hears the jeering voice come uncomfortably close behind him: "Hey, check out the new chick."

He closes his eyes for a moment, slows his next step, but doesn't stop. Of course a new school comes with new bullies. Kurt opens his eyes, rolls his shoulders back, and keeps walking.

"You are a chick, aren't you?" comes a second voice.

Kurt doesn't speed up, deepens his breathing instead. There's someone coming up on his right side. Kurt attends to his peripheral vision.

"Sure walks like a chick," says a third guy, and there's a note of suggestiveness in the words that prickles a chill up his neck. The guy is moving closer behind him, to his left. Ahead, at the edge of the parking lot, Kurt spots a dumpster. They think they're going to to herd him toward it.

Kurt's heartbeat remains steady when he stops suddenly and pivots on the toe of one polished black boot. The three guys halt abruptly too, rocking forward on their toes. Kurt hasn't attended karate over the summer in favor of summer school classes to give him a head start here, but his body responds naturally: his joints and muscles seek balance and loosen, his mind clears and his awareness expands. He hasn't hit anyone outside the dojo since he started sixth grade. Hasn't had to.

Calmly, he regards his pursuers. They wear letterman jackets but have not yet earned their letters. All three of them are much bigger than him, and older of course. Which makes this all the more pathetic. So it'll be all the more satisfying once they grant him an invitation to kick their asses. "Good morning, gentlemen," he says, courteously enough, but he never did quite master respectful, so it comes out a little sarcastic.

"An _ugly_ chick," the second guy says looking Kurt up and down. He's heavy set, dark-skinned, and has mastered well the bully's hallmark expression of dismissive scorn.

"Dude, that's seriously your voice?" says guy one. He has a short mohawk, and when he puts his hands on his hips to sweep his jacket away from his chest, puffed up and crassly intimidating, Kurt can see the outline of a nipple ring through the material of his Metallica t-shirt.

Kurt lets go of the strap of his satchel, prepares to shift his weight to allow it to slide off his shoulder. Steps his feet apart, keeps his back straight, his arms still and ready.

The third guy tilts his head appraisingly and laughs. He's got a good six inches on Kurt, broad-shouldered and thick-necked—sports bizarrely thin eyebrows. "I can't tell if it's an ugly chick or a tiny little fa-"

"Hey!" comes a new voice from behind Kurt. He turns his head just far enough to see movement.

"Leave him alone," says the fourth guy. His tone is assertive, and there's a flash of red: another letterman jacket.

"Come on, we're just having a little fun with him," says guy one.

"And it was only just starting to get good," Kurt says with a touch of venom, this time sincerely.

The trio appears surprised, so Kurt smiles at them, sweetly as he can.

"Puck, Karofsky, Z? Go to class," the new guy says, and he steps into view beside Kurt. He's very tall but not bulky, fair skinned, dark haired. And, as Kurt's body informs him with a sudden swoop of blood from his brain to his belly, very handsome. Great.

"Later, princess," says guy one and steps back. Guy two rolls his eyes and turns away, and guy three winks and blows him a kiss before also turning and moving away with his friends.

"Those guys..." tall and handsome says with a trailing sigh. Then he looks at Kurt with a bright, slightly vacant, but very earnest and endearingly crooked smile. "Are you okay?"

Kurt hitches the strap of his bag up his shoulder and smooths the front of his jacket. It's a new season design by Marc Jacobs. Or, it's as close as Kurt could get with his sketchbook and sewing machine. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you," he says, aiming for prim, but it comes out breathless and even higher than usual. Blinking again takes effort.

"Finn Hudson," says the guy, unfazed and still smiling. He sticks out his hand toward Kurt.

Kurt stares at it for a moment before taking it. "Kurt Hummel," he says.

"Cool," Finn Hudson says and shakes Kurt's hand firmly twice before he lets go. "Welcome to McKinley. I'll see you around."

"Yeah..." Kurt says, and he stands there for a few seconds more while his heart tries to pump the blood back up to his brain, and he watches Finn Hudson walk toward the entrance to the school.

.

The morning periods drag with introductions and orientations and too long roll calls. There's no material to learn yet and only trivial homework assignments. In second period his phone vibrates in his breast pocket.

Between classes, Kurt finds a quiet corner in the library to check it, finds an alert for a Breach Event. It's barely been two months since the last one. Kurt bites his lip and his heart pounds as he quickly launches his twitter app. Goes to his saved #BreachEvent timeline. There's not much information yet: the time of record and one category two Kaiju being tracked, destination undetermined. All eight Shatterdomes are on alert, preparing to launch Jaegers. The PPDC has designated the Kaiju Miscreant. Kurt creates a new timeline for the tagged name, pockets his phone, and then gets himself to his next class. He arrives less than a minute after the bell rings.

.

At lunch, Kurt finds an empty table. Sets down his tray, but ignores the food in favor of getting out his phone to check for updates. The new Chinese Jaeger, Crimson Typhoon, has deployed in Hong Kong. She was completed just weeks ago, the first of the Mark 4 Jaegers. Unique with her three pilot crew and armament, they've touted her as uncommonly fast and nimble, due to new advances in both the large scale engineering and an enhanced neural connection between machine and human.

"Hey," comes a girl's voice, soft and a little tentative.

Kurt flicks a look up. Recognizes the girl from his first period class where he'd admired her royal purple brocade waistcoat. She's smiling at him. "Hi," he says, smiles back.

"We had Geometry together," she says, "I'm Mercedes."

"I remember," Kurt says. "I'm Kurt."

"Do you mind if I join you?"

"Go ahead," Kurt says, and turns his attention back to his phone. Follows a link to a PPDC livestream.

So she sits opposite him with her lunch. Kurt doesn't look up. On the tiny screen, the video jitters, blurred with motion. The helicopter hovers over Crimson Typhoon's shoulder, but the camera is pointed out toward the empty, dark swells of the ocean. The Kaiju hasn't surfaced yet. The pilots will know where the monster is, how close he is, how fast he's moving, his angle of attack. But Kurt doesn't know.

This part is the worst: the wait before the charge. The last breath before the curtain rises and everyone gets to see what manner of beast has arrived to try to destroy them this time.

"What are you so intent on?" Mercedes asks him. "Lolcats? Angry Birds? Funny Youtube?"

"No," Kurt says. His eyebrows rise with his gaze. "Breach Event. There's a Kaiju en route to Hong Kong. They've deployed the new Jaeger, Crimson Typhoon. It's her debut." Kurt turns the phone to angle the screen so Mercedes can see too. "I've got the live feed from one of the chase vehicles."

She doesn't look. Instead, she reaches out and pushes the phone back toward him. "No, thanks," she says. "I can't watch that stuff. Especially not while I'm trying to have lunch."

Kurt's mouth comes open for a dumbfounded moment. He swallows and finds his voice. "You don't follow the Kaiju attacks?"

She shakes her head and spears a potater tot with her fork. "It's too horrible, thinking about the people in those cities?" Mercedes shudders. "And there's nothing I can do. I'm just a kid in Ohio, so no, I don't follow them."

Kurt stares at her for one long moment, and then his attention is drawn back to his phone, where the livestream has stalled. Somewhere in the Pacific, Miscreant is barreling toward Hong Kong. And soon, one of them-Crimson Typhoon or Miscreant—will land the first blow. Kurt tabs to his Twitter app, refreshes to see the 287 new tweets tagged #Miscreant. Then he taps on the first one with a new still from one of the chase 'copters. Can't make out much but a bright golden flare. That'll be the new plasma caster the Chinese Jaeger engineers have been excited about. Which means the Kaiju is there, _now_. "It's happening anyway," Kurt says in a rush. Glances up at Mercedes, sees her frowning at him, her head cocked.

He explains, "Whether you watch it or not, this still happens. The monsters still attack. People still die. The rangers still fight, to keep us safe—even if we're all the way back here in Ohio."

She shakes her head. "It's too scary and sad. All I can do is pray for us all, and I do most nights. But I can't deal with _watching_ it and knowing."

"Then it's good there are people who can," he says, and it comes out more snippy than he means it to. He's never been good at that, moderating his tone of voice.

But Mercedes laughs. "Oh my Lord," she says. "Please tell me you're not one of those crazy fanboys who thinks it's all romantic and glamorous to be a ranger?"

The casual mockery he's used to, and Kurt doesn't confess his ambitions lightly. He knows what he looks like, what people think. His convictions, though, he's always ready to express them. Kurt presses his lips together for a moment while he collects the familiar words. He lifts his chin, and he speaks: "I believe it's important that we not look away from this. It's important to understand what's happening to us. It's important to honor the battle."

She shrugs and looks down at her plate, pushes a carrot stick toward her fish burger. "It doesn't change anything though, so why torture yourself with it?"

"My mother died in San Francisco on K-Day."

"Oh," she says and reaches across the table, puts her hand over his wrist. "I had no idea, Kurt. I'm so sorry."

He nods, looks down at her hand, dark and soft and warm upon his pale skin. Strangers rarely offer him comfort. People rarely touch him in friendship. But his eyes stay dry. An awkward silence settles between them. Kurt steals glances at his phone. The livestream stutters to life, but fails again quickly.

"Do you know Finn Hudson?" Mercedes asks him eventually. "Sophomore student council president? JV quarterback?"

Kurt feels his pulse flutter up near the root of his tongue. "I've met him," he says.

"You should talk to him sometime. I heard his father died in that attack too."

"Really?" Kurt's never met anyone else who lost someone then.

Mercedes nods. "Yeah, I heard he wants to enroll in the Jaeger program, train to be a pilot."

This information is a strange, unexpected thing. It makes Kurt's own plans for himself feel less like a weird little secret, even if he hasn't spoken them to Mercedes. But he also feels vaguely _off_, like despite his focus and goals, he's just a poser. Someone like Finn is clearly made for the program: athletic, charismatic, strong. Finn has a weight and agency in the world Kurt knows he lacks himself. He's striven hard to compensate with excellence in other areas, but someone like Finn, he just has it.

It doesn't help that the incident in the parking lot this morning left Kurt feeling small in a way he hasn't felt for a while. Alpha male jock rescues the nerdy little fairy? It's not the beginning to any kind of friendship that Kurt's ever seen. Pity, no matter how well intentioned, isn't a good foundation. "I doubt he'd want to talk to me," Kurt says.

"He's not like that. He's actually really nice to everyone."

"Huh," Kurt says and looks over at the table where the football jocks and cheerleaders are sitting, smiling and laughing together. Finn's there with them, well-liked and accessible.

"So what's your deal anyway?" Mercedes asks. "Rumor has it you're some kind of genius who's skipped a couple grades?"

"Huh?" Kurt says again, turning his attention back to Mercedes. Then he processes the question. "Third and ninth," he says.

"So you're a sophomore at... _thirteen_?"

He nods.

"Well that explains the baby face," she teases.

It's friendly, but Kurt doesn't laugh, just smiles thinly.

"Are you as smart as they say?" she asks.

"That depends on what they say."

"Well, you're in AP Geometry with me, so you must be pretty smart."

"Mostly I just work hard," Kurt says. He doesn't add that he finds geometry easy or that he simply doesn't have the time to waste. He intends to apply to the PPDC junior academy at fourteen-if his Dad approves and if his grades and extracurriculars are solid. It's highly competitive, and he wants to be as ready as possible. The Jaeger program needs engineers and mechanics as badly as they need pilots. With each attack, the Kaiju grow more cunning and strong, and each fight is harder fought; every Jaeger lost, a terrible set back.

Kurt looks back down at his phone, sees 412 new tweets, hopes the Wei brothers are succeeding. Loads the updates, scans down the line of them to try to get the general picture. Most of the messages are unspecific, heartfelt wishes for Crimson Typhoon to deliver various violent endings to Miscreant. HKShatterDm's latest, as of two minutes ago, is, "#CrimsonTyphoon engaged with #Miscreant in close quarters, all systems online. Plasma caster deployed. #PPDC"

"Are they winning?" Mercedes asks.

"Too soon to tell," Kurt says, fidgets, sliding his thumb up and down the glass of his phone, dragging the tweets back and forth in a blur. Thousands of miles away, those three pilots—not that much older than himself-are fighting a monster together for the very first time. No matter how heavy their armor and powerful their weaponry, it doesn't make it any less an act of sacrifice and courage. Kurt's seen the battles when the Jaegers lose. They're ripped apart so savagely few pilots ever survive.

"I'll pray for them," Mercedes says.

"Thanks," Kurt says though he can't believe there's anyone listening.

.

On his way to American History after lunch, there's some buzz in the halls about the attack. Crimson Typhoon performed well. The pilots had good control. Kurt's watched the highlights from the battle already, seen how the new Jaeger outclassed the Kaiju with the speed and ferocity of her attacks. The triplets already have a signature move: the Twittersphere has dubbed it the Thundercloud Formation. He wonders how long the advantage will last.

Kurt pockets his phone and sits in an empty desk in the front row by the window. There's a flash of red beside him as someone takes the desk next to his. Kurt glances up and catches Finn Hudson looking at him. "Hi," Kurt says on half-stunned impulse. "Uh... it's Finn, right?"

"Yeah," Finn says, squints at him comically and points with both index fingers, like some kind of 1950's caricature. "Kurt Hummel."

Kurt covers his mouth to hide his sudden, involuntary smile. He is not going to be ridiculous about this or get his hopes up. He doesn't need the distraction.

But Finn doesn't turn away after the basic pleasantries are exchanged. Instead he asks, "You're a sophomore?"

Kurt bends down toward his bag as his face heats beneath Finn's attention. He's been getting variations on the question all day, so he gives the quickest answer he can so Finn can stop pretending interest and get on with ignoring him. "Yeah, I skipped a couple grades."

"Lucky," Finn says with genuine envy. It's almost enough to make Kurt laugh.

"Mmm," Kurt replies and digs out his pens: black, blue, red, and green.

But Finn isn't done. "No one's given you any more trouble today I hope."

"No," Kurt says, straightens, and loses his smile. He needs to discourage this, for his own sanity as much as anything. "For what it's worth, while I appreciate your gallantry, I didn't need rescuing this morning. I can handle myself."

"Okay," Finn says, and he has the decency not too look too skeptical. "But not everyone can, and I figure, if I keep an eye out, it'll discourage that kind of stuff, and things won't escalate, you know? I don't want to see anyone getting hurt. Not on my watch."

"That... actually..." It's not even close to the answer Kurt expected. He lets himself look at Finn, tries harder to _see_, knowing what he knows: that he and Finn may share some scars. "That makes sense," Kurt says.

"So are we cool, Kurt?" Finn asks without the slightest trace of pity.

The glib sounding question is anything but. Kurt hesitates, evaluates. Maybe it will be worth it. "Yeah, we're cool," Kurt says, smiles, and Finn gives him another knee-weakening, sweetly crooked smile back. It's still not fair.

The teacher comes in then, and Kurt is grateful for the excuse to turn his attention away from Finn and his distressingly handsome face. However, Kurt doesn't take much notice of the teacher's introductory remarks. He's too absorbed in considering again what Mercedes told him about Finn. Kurt decides: if an appropriate opportunity arises, he'll ask him about K-Day.


End file.
